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Chapter Text

♪ Coming straight from your house… He’s the one, the only, the King of TV! Entertainment on your screen! The show that makes you scream! Mr Ant Tenna’s TV Time! ♪

It was the place to be for upcoming Darkners – and a Big Shot wouldn’t have missed his chance to shine! Lovable underdog Spamton G. Spamton always managed to earn his spot on the next episode, doing well on quizzes, messing up on physical challenges, and stealing the spotlight on every ad break. Today marked his tenth participation. He knew all the ins and outs of the point system, Tenna’s little tells, what made the Lightners click – and the host might have overlooked some rules to bow to their whims first and foremost. Spamton had this show in the bag, his strategy honed and tested!

He fucked up the quiz.

Maybe he shouldn’t have partied so hard the night before in Queen’s mansion – still worth it though! He won yet another tender to remodel Cyber City’s transportation system… Something about roller coasters, which meant cars, and he loved cars, especially when he had carte blanche to design them! His memory turned hazy somewhere around midnight. There were more drinks, more handshakes, more deals, and a call from his friend at some unholy hour in the morning telling him he needed to be at the top of his game on Tenna’s game show today, so new opportunities may arise… an honest-to-goodness TV deal, the Holy Grail of advertising! Eyes bloodshot with spirits and fatigue, Spamton jumped at the opportunity and jutted down the instructions in an unreadable scrawl on the notebook he left by the rotary phone.

Of course, he forgot to reread them when he raced to make it on time to the set.

So yes, arguably, Spamton may have had one too many shots of battery acid yesterday. Makeup managed to hide the dark bags under his eyes with heavy white foundation, but the miracles ended there.

He was hot, bothered, uncomfortable in his skin, in his clothes, his tie had become a choking hazard. Blinded by the studio lights, he resorted to the old Addison plastic smile trick to keep his eyes shut – meaning he couldn’t read the cue cards! And he stood there like a clod while laugh tracks played and he missed another of Tenna’s punchlines. The seasoned host docked points for less… Spamton’s forced smile quivered from the strain.

A dozen questions went by and he had yet to qualify for the next round. He was on thin ice and barely remembered what came next. The audience held its breath. Now, that was good TV! And bad for his resume, he needed to clutch this win at all costs!!!

Suddenly, the audience grew silent. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tenna making a grand shushing motion to ask the tie-breaking question. Then, he straightened, stern and focused on the card before him. “Famous Hometown historian, I have written a fantasy saga—”

He knew the answer! Tenna did mention Lightner literature on their smoke break last week…! As if possessed, Spamton slammed the buzzer and shouted “GERSON BOOM!”, squeezing in the last point required to move on to the next round. A barely forgivable heart-pounding performance!

Exulting, the Big Shot was met with hearty applause and cheers from the audience; meanwhile, Tenna went on to list off some lame consolation prize for the losing contestant.

No time to linger on that shitshow, however; he was expected on the ad set for his solo number, a full ad break Tenna had granted him on the condition he followed the stringent channel guidelines to a T. Spamton had soon found out that Cyber City lawyers had nothing on TV censors, and the fact that Tenna managed to get a full programme on the air was a feat in and of itself.

So of course he fumbled his lines.

The spotlights hit him square in the face as he began his usual spiel, a wave of nausea rolling in his guts. He locked his jaw into a smile as the heat surged to his head. “Our new Cungadero™ will have your whole family c-c-cr—”

That damn stutter was back. Annoyed, Spamton snapped his fingers and played a record_scratch.wav SFX to cover up his blunder.

“—cruising around town!” he finally got out, tongue sticking out like a comic relief cartoon character. Of course it was all part of the plan, that’s business for you! It was smooth sailing from there. He knew the ad by heart. Nevermind the migraine.

“Order our [SPECIL] Cungadero™,” he cringed at the misspelling on the glitchy pop-up window, “only at [Big Shot Autos]! Deals so good you’ll 🎶 myself!”

Last but not least, that traitorous jingle played over his delayed slogan, making him look like a fraud an amateur!

But this was no time to dawdle: they were on a tight schedule! Shuffling behind the scenes, Spamton waded through the busy crew of Darkners to take his place on the next round of Tenna’s endless boards. Lights, camera, applause – crushing heat dropped on him and he balled his fists. He peeked at the scene between dyed eyelashes… and Tenna’s upbeat voice drove the nail in his coffin.

“Today’s  will be… the cooking channel!”

Great! Just what he needed: more fire!!! And heaven knew how much he hated that challenge in particular. Reminded him of part-time gigs that didn’t quite cover his tab at the cyber grill… Irritated, Spamton slapped his cheeks to focus, paying no mind to the shadowguy tying the mandatory apron around his waist while Tenna dutifully repeated the instructions for the umpteenth time. Heaven, was it so complicated a concept to feed customers at a restaurant⁈ The sooner they started, the sooner this hell of a challenge would be over.

The countdown started. While the restaurant furnaces blasted heat from behind, the spotlights shone like a thousand suns from above. Trapped in-between, Spamton swore he could feel the crude light melting the skin off his bones. He took a tiny peek at his surroundings and locked in.

“3… 2… 1… START!”

Food and customers came in every direction at once yet Spamton faced his personal nightmare head-on; today, he had everything to prove – to the audience, to Tenna, to the Addisons… to himself.  On his life, he couldn’t mess this up!

And Spamton was nothing if not resilient.

Heavy plates under cloche hurt his wrists, the star rating steadily plummeted, scalding platters teetered dangerously on both arms, wines swished and spilled from glass to glass, clients clamoured for their dish and, in his hurry to serve them, Spamton inevitably tripped on his own feet… and like magic, he regained his balance, as if an invisible thread pulled him back at the last second. (The first of many strings.) The eternal underdog flashed a grin and a wink for the close-up shot; seething inside all the while. Suckers, you thought I was done for? The legendary Spamton G. Spamton always avoided elimination by the skin of his teeth, and today would be no different! One last plate slid from his arm to the table before the round ended, numbers spun like on a slot machine, scores were confirmed by a bailiff and handed in a star-sealed envelope to Tenna who opened it with a flourish and shouted…

“And our contestant’s done it again, folks!” the game show host beamed somewhere far above.

Confetti popped all over the stage as the screen displayed his score which, with all bonuses accounted for, earned him the coveted  – the promise of becoming a regular cast member.

And the crowd went crazy, for Spamton was no businessman – he was a magician.

A true TV star.

When the cameras stopped rolling, Spamton still couldn’t believe it. “T̸͇̆o̷͉͠m̴̳̕o̸̱͑ṙ̶͔r̴͔͐ǒ̶͓w̸̰̔ ̴̠̏w̵̙͘i̸͕͂l̸̘̓l̴̬͠ ̶͖̓b̸͍̾ḙ̵̽ ̸͈̔y̷̥͠o̵͎̿u̴̮̒r̶̤̚ ̸̱̓ẗ̴̠́r̴̮͑i̴̳͝a̷̺̕l̸̪̉ ̴̯̌b̵̦̓y̵͇̍ ̵̰̋f̸̳͐i̷̜̿ŗ̷̉è̵̪.̸͍͐ Shine on TV Time, and you may secure the biggest role of your life,” his friend asked of him, and he’d done it! As foretold, he pulled off a miracle on prime-time television!

The champion didn’t have the strength to celebrate.

After pouring his heart and soul into that show, victory tasted sweet – and water sweeter still. What he wouldn’t give to dunk his head under a watercooler and pour it straight from the source into his parched throat…! He must have sweated half his weight in that last challenge alone, and yet he felt heavier than ever! … Wait. His mind hit a roadblock as it tried to process anything besides the heat. Even his hand stuttered to reach his chest, where he felt no wetness on his shirt. To his surprise, his clothes were perfectly dry. But he was burning all right, just not boiled alive – only microwaved under the spotlights. Explained the migraine.

He was going to shred this stuffy jacket.

Before he suffocated, Spamton took a step toward the exit, blood rushed to his head, his frantic pulse tolled in his ears and rattled his brain like drums—

“¿ʎɐʞo noʎ ǝɹɐ 'uoʇɯɐdS”

He wiped his forehead in vain. Swallowed and gasped with no saliva.

“¿uoʇɯɐdS ˙˙˙”

Doomed, betrayed, bored, Spamton gazed into the studio lights that spiralled into endless lines of code looping into the void. They blinked fast, so fast, his breathing couldn’t keep up. The cardboard decor collapsed.

“                     ”

Golden confetti shimmered on the floor.

…

Click.

Chapter Text

Spamton woke up to the cool air of the AC kissing his face. Carefully, he cracked an eye open, and when no light was flashed into it, he leisurely blinked at the surrounding cool hues. Eventually, his eyes focused on the moving star wallpaper of the now familiar Green Room, where he comfortably lied on a sofa. The area sounded calmer than usual without pippins exchanging coins and banknotes in hushed tones, nor shadowguys tutting office gossip. Just soft lounge music and distant conversation at the bar.

Curious, Spamton checked himself at a glance: someone had removed his jacket (neatly folded under his head as a makeshift pillow), loosened his tie, and modestly unbuttoned the upper two buttons of his shirt so he could breathe. Whoever decided not to completely undress him had his eternal gratitude. He had an image to maintain!

… And he didn’t feel like a dying fish ashore anymore. That was a plus.

On his right, Tenna was silently observing him, his screen bright but neutral, like he was carefully weighing his options. A rare sight for someone who usually wore his heart on his sleeve.

“Tenna,” he greeted his boss carefully.

Spamton belatedly realised he was balancing an ice crystal on his forehead when he turned to speak; it landed on the floor with a clack. Although the crystal had helped to cool him down a little, Cyber Darkners needed actual cooling liquid or jelly to keep their bodies from overheating. Not too bad in an emergency, though.

“Did you have a nice nap, Spamton?”

He was being tested. Quizzed. Fine by him. “I did,” he boldly replied; then, without missing a beat: “Bonus points for the host who carried the S-ranked contestant to such a cozy room. People would [pay to win] that ride!”

From the host’s reaction, Spamton knew he was right on the money. His antennae always shot up straight when he was caught red-handed – but his whole body reacted too when he was genuinely taken by surprise. So cute obvious. Obviously. He was such a fine observer.

“You are incorrigible,” Tenna sighed, a fond smirk returning to his face regardless. “Feeling better, I suppose?”

“Peachy,” he lied, like a liar who had needed a good minute and a half to process where he was. Not sure of the ‘when’ yet either.

Tenna saw right through him, of course. White lies wouldn’t fly against a man of his trade. Trying to seek a way out of this embarrassing situation, Spamton looked up, to his left, where the weather duo peeked at him from behind the sofa.

“Hi guys,” he tried to sound laidback, but his voice wavered and wheezed from exertion. “Thanks for the crystal, Elnina. I d-dropped it but, uh, it helped-d.”

Spamton wished he could disappear into the couch.

“Are you sure?” she asked, visibly unconvinced by the sorry spectacle he made more than his incriminating blabbering. Mortified, he crossed his arms as if it did anything to hide him from his rescuers’ scrutiny.

“Yes, I’m fi—”

Tenna shot him a stern glance, as far as TV screens were concerned. With no other ace up his sleeve, Spamton capitulated at last. He wouldn’t be winning this battle – and perhaps not even the war, if he continued to make a fool of himself.

“—Fine, a glass of water, please.” He rolled his eyes.

Elnina rushed out of the Green Room to get him a cup from the watercooler.

“Between us,” Lanino chimed in, leaning on the back of the couch, “you still feel too hot to the touch.”

“[Hands off the merchandise],” Spamton flashed a warning popup, suspiciously narrowing his eyes.

“Of course!” he agreed, twirling the baton he used to present the weather forecast. “I used this to appraise your temperature – though there was little need to.”

“You were burning up,” Tenna provided. Static briefly covered his screen. “I should have noticed sooner. Contestants are supposed to have a good time, too.”

He sounded genuinely regretful. Spamton felt his pulse picking up, his throat tighten, his heart squeeze – from dehydration, no doubt! Something like remorse coiled in his gut… so he boldly sat down and rebuttoned his shirt in an attempt to discard it. (Nevermind the blackout he got from sitting up too fast.)

“And I did. I won [BIG]!” he claimed with a gaudy popup window blinking in and out of view. Terrible time and place to show off, he realised a second too late and cursed himself. Big $!$!.

“If you feel faint on set, it’s my job to swap you out,” he purposely talked over his blatant cover-up with a stern but gentle reminder of who was in charge. Then, like in confidence, Tenna bowed to his eye level, arms elegantly crossed behind his back. “You have to trust me,” he said in mild admonishment.

Spamton’s breath didn’t hitch at the sudden closeness – or bossiness – at all. “Because you know TV, don’t you?” he raised a knowing eyebrow.

“Because I care about you,” Tenna simply corrected.

And in one sentence, the TV Darkner wiped the phony smirk off his face.

Having never once experienced concern devoid of pity and malice, stated as plainly as the sky is blue, Spamton was stunned speechless by that sentiment. Seconds stretched with a delightful fuzziness, a delicate sort of apprehension; the Addison was almost scared to dwell on the implications, simple as they were, that his existence might hold some special significance to someone else…

(Meanwhile, Tenna straightened up as he saw Elnina return, oblivious to the confusion he stirred in the mailman’s heart.)

By the time his brain rebooted, she was offering him a cup of water – whendidshegethere – he gingerly took with a hurried “Thank you” and, before Lanino was finished telling him to slow down, he’d already chugged it down.

“Ah! I feel as good as new!” he bragged and still fooled no one.

“Right,” Tenna politely coughed into his fist. “Since you put up an incredible performance today (bodily harm notwithstanding),” he added as a theatrical aside, laying the sarcasm thick for Spamton’s fried brain to comprehend (he didn’t), “I’d like to have a talk. Care to follow me in my office?” he asked, uselessly testing Spamton’s business resolve, and perhaps more accurately his ability to stand up and walk.

The question was easily answered. With an award-winning smile, Spamton got up, flung his suit jacket on his shoulder and struck a pose, years of modelling for Orange suddenly paying off.

“Lead the way, Boss.”

☆ ★ ☆ ★ ☆

Tenna grabbed them two more cups of water from the watercooler on their way to the office. This time, Spamton took a seat in the chair facing Tenna’s desk instead of the sofa, while his boss went around to open the sash window before settling in his plush office chair. As a sign of goodwill, Spamton took a sip unprompted. Now, let the negotiations begin!

Papers fluttered in the cool spring breeze like business birdsong… and he lost his train of thought in a brief moment of contemplation.

“You had a hard time today, didn’t you?” Tenna broke the ice in the soft tone he reserved to their private rendezvous.

So he chose to start the meeting with pleasantries: a classy move, Spamton had to give it to him.

“Was it that obvious?” he shyly looked away, busying his hands with a random fountain pen whose cap was crowned with a golden CRT. Tacky TV Time merchandise. (He’d already swiped one for himself a week ago.)

“Not outwardly, no. I had an inkling when you started fumbling the quiz. Then you skipped your smoke break,” he tapped on the desk, fidgeting too. “You missed your cue on an ad for your favourite car. And—”

“I think I’ve got the gist,” Spam interrupted him with a sigh of surrender.

“Do you, though?” Tenna tilted his head, teasingly. “See where I’m getting at?”

“That I won with the devil’s luck?” he swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat. “Sorry I’m not living up to your TV standards,” he kicked himself down, gaze shifting further away from the CRT to stare at a houseplant. Fake, just like him.

He was spiralling. His brain refused to cooperate. What was he saying, demeaning himself like that? It was his chance to make it big, he couldn’t let his nerves twist his words…!

“The audience would beg to differ!” Loud and airy, Tenna immediately put a stop to that line of thinking – and brought Spamton’s gaze back on him. Hard to contradict such an indomitable boss…

“Even when things didn’t go your way, you didn’t give up,” he complimented him in earnest. Spamton relaxed a little, and let go of the pen. “Live TV is all about making mistakes look intentional!”

“Setbacks are just another springboard on the way to stardom, aren’t they?” Spamton agreed with a laugh. His head was back in the game.

“Precisely!” Tenna bristled with excitement. “The show must go on. Safety aside,” he said, putting his hand next to his mouth like an aside to the audience, in the only way he had to express a wink, “today proved you’ve got what it takes to thrive on any television programme.”

… Hard not to believe in his words either. Besides, Spamton was still riding the high of victory in the back of his mind. He was born to make it big! All he needed was an in… and the phone got his back in that regard. And now Tenna saw that spark in him, too. His confidence skyrocketed.

“Your dedication to making TV Time a better show has been appreciated.”

Cut to the chase, big guy, he thought, dying to see his ambitions realised.

“What would you say to taking your TV career to the next level… as business partners?”

“And what sort of business do you have in mind, Mr Tenna?” Spamton’s eyes twinkled with hopes and greed.

His head resting in his hands, Tenna grinned almost too amenably. “I was thinking of something along the lines of a promotion, Big Shot. From participant to co-host, to be exact. You would keep your ad slots, of course – we’ll just have to shift your schedule around to make it happen! … After a union-sanctioned trial period, it goes without saying!” he rushed to add, as if he hadn’t already made up his mind to keep Spamton around by any means necessary. “You know how it is! The censors breathing down my neck, those pippins gambling on company time, the new board the Lightners have ordered…”

No, it didn’t really make sense, but Spamton had heard those grievances after some wine loosened Tenna’s lips in the after-show party that followed his fifth participation on TV Time. In his intoxication, he may have babbled about how he loved Tenna’s suit and more so much he gave the Cungadero a new coat of paint, but that was neither here nor there! He just wanted to cheer up the guy! And Tenna sure forgot about his pathetic fight score after that compliment… Spamton loved doing business away from Cyber City.

“You will own your own private changing room, among other exclusive perks.” Corporate mumbo-jumbo, the Addison wouldn’t fall for such cheap tricks. The room sounded nice, though. “And with privileges come responsibilities! It might not be a full-time position, but you know the hours – it might as well be! I’ll be counting on you for script writing; sound, set, and costume design; shooting, co-hosting, finding sponsors…” The list went on. “You’ll be paid accordingly, of course.”

“I’d better be,” Spamton raised an eyebrow but no objection.

“Mmh.” Tenna paused. There was something else on his mind. Perhaps the only part of the contract that mattered. For a brief moment, they did nothing but listen to the sound of crinkling paper in the wind. Spamton took another sip of water before placing the half-empty cup on a stack of tedious paperwork about to take flight. Tenna murmured in thanks, almost unwilling to break that comfortable silence. But he had to.

“I’m entrusting you with the continued success of my lifelong show,” the Dreemurr’s personal entertainer disclosed at last, with nothing but heartfelt gravitas.

Spamton genuinely nodded. He didn’t know to what exactly. Maybe in acknowledgment? To prove himself? To validate Tenna? Whatever it was seemed to please Tenna enough.

“Well then, Spamton? Are you up to the challenge?” he tilted his head, his smile utterly electric – in defiance, in invitation.

And Spamton had never been more ready.

“You can count me in! Together, we’ll make it big!” his hand flew to his heart, all business lessons forgotten, the heat partly to blame. The cards were dealt – Tenna played the winning hand.

“On one condition,” he halted him with a cryptic grin.

Of course, the Addison should have known it was all too good to be true! Whatever constraint that CRT had planned made Spamton freeze in his seat, fearing the worst. How many gullible Darkners had he bound with TV contracts before? He couldn’t let his guard down so close to his goal!

Spamton, stiff and wary, stared defiantly at the conversely composed host – but it was the latter who seized the moment. Without further hesitation, Tenna smoothly leaned over the desk, his silk tie softly brushing against the leather blotter, to cup his cheek and, torturously slowly, intimate and tender, wipe off the layer of white foundation under his gloved thumb. Holding his gaze.

“Don’t lay on the makeup so thick,” he whispered, so close Spamton could smell the coffee and butterscotch forever baked into the celebrity’s suit, hot breath tingling on his lips with just a hint of static… Had he come any closer, his hair might have been caught up in his magnetic presence. Regardless, he couldn’t look away as Tenna made his point crystal clear.

“You’re handsome as you are, Spamton.”

And just like that, Tenna took off his mask in exchange for a contract. Spamton should have been slighted, insulted, offended! But, for some reason…

… he didn’t mind following Tenna’s lead. Nor did he notice that his other cheek had already been wiped clean, or that he was blushing red as an apple.

(No matter how endearing, his face still looked too feverish to Tenna’s liking.)

“But look at me, getting carried away with work!” the seasoned host swiftly changed the topic with a light chuckle.

Please continue, it’s like a dream come true, Spamton yearned, lost in an almost palpable reverie.

“The paperwork can wait,” he brushed off, his antennae drooping almost fondly at the sight of the speechless businessman. His star contestant. And more, tomorrow. “You should get some rest.”

No other employee or contestant had ever received that premium treatment. Spamton kept on winning, just as his friend promised! On cloud nine, he ran a laidback hand through his hair, plastering the dyed locks on his head with sweat alone. Now he felt too gross to offer Tenna a handshake… Well, they would just need to close the deal tomorrow, as he said. The date hadn’t been specified, only the promise that the deal would happen if he were to excel today on TV Time. Which he had! At last, Spamton could allow himself to relax.

“Let’s call it a day.”

“Yeah, let’s,” Spamton gave up. Never had a defeat been so welcome…

They both got up. “After you,” Tenna opened the door and bowed in a performance of every waking moment. Spamton obliged, none the wiser to his boss’s intentions. Even an Addison could still be deceived by smoke and mirrors, and who better than a TV Darkner to mystify others? His very face was a mirror!

“I would offer some ice cream,” the giant presenter thought aloud on their way out, “but I won’t keep you any longer than necessary.”

Spam was pleasantly surprised. That was a commendable level of restraint coming from the media darling whose shootings always ran late because of his perfectionism, and with whom he shared increasingly longer smoke breaks after work, getting ever closer to the witching hour… But today, sunlight greeted him outside the TV studio doors Tenna held for him like a true gentleman.

“Are you sure you can drive? I can call a cab,” said host hurried to offer as they rounded the corner of the parking lot, but Spamton shook his head in confidence.

“I could drive home blindfolded,” he boasted, proudly pointing his thumb at his flushed mug. “I’m fine now, really,” he added, dropping the bravado for the fussy star’s peace of mind. Then, he took out his car keys, settled comfortably in the shiny leather seat of his brand new red-and-yellow Cungadero, and rolled down the windows. Arms crossed behind his back, Tenna patiently waited for him to fasten his seatbelt too. Like he was one to talk, doing his own stunts live!

Amused, Spamton leaned on the window opening with a smirk. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” the businessman promised, peeking out to look up at the TV host – what for, he never remembered.

With the gentle smile he reserved for his Lightners, Tenna waved him goodbye with a simple, heartfelt farewell…

“Take care, Spammy.”

A slip of the tongue. Tenna’s fingers stilled, catching his mistake too late. An untimely nickname, gauche and saccharine. Everything his Big Shot hated. And the mailman’s hand turned on the engine before his mind could fully process the three words hanging between them, louder than the Cungadero’s thunder. He heard that right, they both thought, frozen at the fates’ crossroads.

Spammy.

A unique name. Kind and genuine. A priceless conquest…! A pleasant warmth tingled in his chest… Spamton’s mouth curled in a grin he couldn’t hide, and creases formed around his eyes.

(Tenna committed that unforgivably cute smile to memory.)

“I will!” he conceded with giddy laughter unbecoming of a salesman. A damning pink glow coloured the CRT screen in response. “Thank you, partner,” Spamton said, blissfully unaware of what that word did to Tenna’s heart. Then, he gave the door a loud slap for good measure and promptly stepped on the gas before things got awkward. They already were. Neither of them cared.

At last, the wind picked up to cool his face – and he continued to wave in the mirror until Tenna’s figure disappeared from view…

Chapter Text

It was a long drive home. For Spamton, that time passed in the blink of an eye, sweet breeze blowing in his hair, love and twilight painting the world in a rosy hue. Golden rays cast elongated shadows across the empty passenger seat he wished to fill with his favourite host’s presence… Like the sweetest of poisons, this burgeoning infatuation numbed Spamton’s senses and dulled his perception. Oh, he couldn’t wait to invite Tenna for a ride around town… His heartbeat quickened for reasons he both denied and didn’t suspect. His legs cramped. But considering how fruitful that physical challenge turned out to be, did he have any right to complain? Clueless, drunk on happiness, Spamton drove into the blazing sunset.

Little by little, the scenery shifted. The cliffs flattened, the lanes multiplied, and soon, the sun itself vanished as he entered Cyber World; a familiar migraine beset him as soon as the neon lights popped into view, accompanied by a symphony of klaxons and engines. Eyes almost closed, he still drove to his destination without any issue. Hey, he did have some genuine feats to his name!

And a Big Shot needn’t park his car – he twirled the car keys twice around his fingers before throwing them at one of Queen’s valets and making his way to the mansion, feeling like his legs could give out at any moment. They hurt like hell. He couldn’t feel them.

He would just tough it out, find an ambyu-lance first thing in the morning, grit his teeth, get some coolant poured – stabbed – into his ports, and get right back to business! Time is money, after all! Naturally, he wasn’t looking forward to making that appointment, so he picked up the pace to the entrance to get some rest, as if he could sleep it off. Pompous calls like that had him almost deleted once.

And pompous calls like that got him noticed, so to hell with safety!

Crisp neon lights blurred together as he walked past the gardens on autopilot until, right on the porch, he felt his knees buckle and extended his hand in panic, leaning on the doorframe to light up a cigarette that did nothing to help his parched throat. Crisis averted. The smoke burned. Shame burned hotter, so he took another puff. Once his vision returned, he carelessly crushed the cigarette butt under his white heel and pushed the doors open like a king returned from war, crowned live with laurels.

Thankfully, the lobby was mostly empty. He couldn’t show weakness to Queen’s staff. No matter what. Focused, Spamton powered through the atrium and turned his head away from the café whose coffee aroma made his head swim with static memories of a late-night brainstorming session in Tenna’s office, legs swung above the armrest while he read out his latest sleep-addled slogans to a captivated CRT who roared with laughter at every lousy punchline, his jacket and tie off thrown upon the back of his chair – scandalously underdressed for a family-friendly game show host! The caffeine jitters had been worth it, he thought. And, speaking of Tenna…

“Take care, Spammy.”

His words echoed louder than the carefree laughs they shared that night, their warmth seeping into his core, melting the walls he put up around his heart.

Well, it isn’t for lack of trying…! he lamented. For him, there was nothing he could’t do! So why was his room… so far… and the mansion so goddamn huge… Ah. It always came back to this. He wished he were bigger…

His heels clicked rapidly on the immaculate tiles, walking past useless rooms, trekking through endless hallways, and climbing up the merciless flights of stairs to his suite… He didn’t spare a glance at the swatchlings dusting the pristine artworks and potteries to keep steady, keep going, eyes on the prize, he could see it now, the bed he would crash on and the lights he wouldn’t turn on. Nevermind the heat haze making the whole place feel like a scorching water tank. Stupid swatchlings and their stupid gossip… His brain was being fried so hard he could feel sizzling sparks behind his eyes, and he couldn’t listen in. He just wanted a bed to lie in.

His hand fumbled around the door handle. He swore at it – yet, out of breath, it came out as a pathetic whine instead. Eventually, the lock surrendered and Spamton tumbled inside, leaned against the door to shut it close, and let out a shaky breath.

He’d made it.

Using the door to keep himself upright, Spamton pulled hard on his tie, tight as a snake’s grasp around his neck, to loosen the aggravating fabric, then wriggled his arms out of his jacket and threw it on the floor before tossing his derbies at the wall too. And, like Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his back, he wobbled step by step toward his bed with a volcano cooking in his head, too exhausted to entertain the mere idea of showering anymore.

At long last, he flopped face-first into the cold sheets, ready to tune out for the next 12 hours and consequences be damned, he needed a break, and who could deny a Big Shot his rest?

And as soon as his head hit the pillow, a strident sound startled him.

The rotary phone’s ring.

His pulse quickened, his head pounded; it was a phone call he couldn’t miss. Exhausted, Spamton dragged himself out of bed with a groan, then limped in the thick darkness to pick up the black receiver. His benefactor didn’t wait.

Forcing on a Big Shot award-winning smile, Spamton answered.

“You’ve reached the one! The only! Spamton G. Spamton!”

“Indeed, I have,” his friend greeted him with a hint of mirth, seemingly pleased by his enthusiasm. They had made him a star – he had better sound like one. “Congratulations on your win,” they purred, scratching an insatiable itch in the mailman’s ego.

“Thanks again for the tip,” Spamton reciprocated, though tonight it sounded less like his customer service voice and more like a sincere Addison. “I appreciate it.”

“Good contestants deserve good prizes. As a reward, I have another juicy deal lined up for you.”

“A deal?” His mouth would have watered if it could. “Sounds like music to my ears!” Unlike his voice, raspy and dry.

The voice grinned, overwhelming the line with shrill static. Then, it laid out the sweetest offer, tailored to answer all of Spamton unfulfilled desires: Big Shot Autos posters on every billboard, a full order book and stellar reviews, the salesman of the year award, the promise that his name would live on forever. Just another step to climb on the stairway to Heaven…

Spamton agreed. Spamton nodded. Spamton listened to every minute detail without need to write them down, for the words flowed right into his mind, the instructions seared into his code and overloading what little working memory remained.

“Proceed,” they said, voice smooth as silk.

“When?” Spamton felt faint.

“Now.”

Spamton gripped the table like his life depended on it. His vision was swimming, pixels toppling, light and dark flashed before his eyes—

“Listen, I—” he gasped, hunched over the phone. His fingers left a trail of condensation on the cold plastic surface.

“It is a one-time offer. Or would you let it go to waste? My generous advice?”

“… N-no, of course not,” Spamton swallowed a painful lump in his throat. His friend knew best… and brooked no hesitation. Because you have the determination to make it big, they once said.

There was a heavy beat, roiling static like a breath down his neck, the voice refusing to hang up before it got their protégé to explicitly agree to their terms. Seconds stretched into a full minute before the glitchy Addison could string together the words he was looking for. Delirious, Spamton wondered if an ice pick to the head might abate the pain. He’d take his chances.

“… Thank you, partner.” He was boiling alive. “It’s always a pleasure doing business with you,” he stretched an empty smiled out of habit, falling back on his basic programming to keep going. Smile. The customer is always right.

“Likewise,” the voice buttered him up like a roast chicken, before hanging up.

Spamton took a shuddering a breath at the first dial tone.

It wasn’t his place to question his benefactor. He just had to make the [right] calls and call it a [good] day. He happily complied, too tired to realise he was nothing more than a puppet at the end of his rope.

★ ☆ ★ ☆ ★

Spamton fought back against sleep every step of the way, his eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings, unable to withstand the dull city lights pouring in from the window screen of his deluxe suite.

A shiver ran down his spine. Tomorrow, his name would be on everyone’s lips!

His head lolled, always a little deeper, in between each call, before he snapped back to consciousness and resumed his mission. Again, his finger missed a notch to poke the phone instead. He sighed and dialled yet another number to spout the usual salesman drivel.

It wasn’t his place to question the workings of the deal. But who took his calls after working hours? Into the night? Were they Darkners or… something else? Droning thoughts ran in the background of his mind, ones and zeroes spinning like a broken slot machine, never to be answered – he had things to sell. Practiced pitches, tailored tales, Big Shot sales to make. With a little sweet talk and a sprinkle of lies, wrapped in bright smiles and shiny cars, he could have anyone wrapped around his finger like the phone cord he idly played with. All doors opened as foretold. People folded at the mere mention of his name, as if following a script; slowly, his own voice turned into white noise and Spamton tuned out, calling and talking and bullshitting his way to the top. He got the promised billboards.

He put down the receiver.

His face met the ground.

Nobody came to pick him up.

Spamton didn’t realise he had collapsed – only that the floor was blessedly cold and solid against his cheek, unlike the darkness revolving around him. Like a shapeless ghost, his breath slowly drifted from his lips to the vents, as if that warmth never belonged to him. Darkness crawled on his back. Countless eyes stared back.

As his consciousness faded, he dreamed neither of topping the sales charts, nor of reaching Heaven, but of mellow words…

“Take care, Spammy.”

…and a genuine smile graced his face as he whispered a damning confession through chapped lips.

“Thank you, partner.”